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by SQ (proteinscollide)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-22
Updated: 2006-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione at the end of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> For Sandy

The summer after the war is won, Hermione spends the whole of it at home with her parents for the first time in four years.

“Your letters home this year – things sounded a little – ”

Her mother asks her questions anxiously as they walk away from the station platform, one arm around Hermione’s shoulder keeping her close, more than a little lost for words around her little girl, now very much grown up even in her non-descript school uniform. Her parents have been under the impression that Hermione has been at Hogwarts for the entirety of the past year, that things are about as normal but a little more hectic and tense, and right now nothing really looks out of place but the lines that creep over Hermione’s forehead when she frowns.

“Is everything alright now, darling?”

Hermione hasn’t slept in her own bed for a week, hasn’t really had a good sleep in that time. Seven days ago, she was up until dawn researching every single aspect of Harry’s planned last stand, worried sick that her knowledge would not be enough; and yet utterly certain that whatever she lacked, Harry and all their friends could make up for it somehow. Three days ago, she had stood by Harry’s side, her right hand gripped tight in his, her left in Ron’s, standing in the complete silence of victory, only the echo of the last spell reverberating in her ears. Two nights ago, she had stumbled into Ron’s room, Ron heavy upon her neck with his hot breath, slurred gait, and she had been a little drunk herself. The two of them collapsing onto his bed, drawing the curtains, lips and hands in near-posessed movement – _here_ , a touch longer _there_ , a sharp gasp in her ear – and then a few precious hours of shallow sleep in each other’s arms.

Her parents would probably be horrified to hear about her week just past, but she’s sure that maybe the only thing they could grasp would be her night with Ron. Hermione doesn’t want all that has happened this year to come down to recriminations about that.

“I think – I think everything is fine now, mum.”

Hermione hugs her mother in return, fiercely, briefly. Her mother pulls away in the end, a little surprised, but she has a trembling smile on her face.

That night, the evening breeze cools the summer heat to a comfortable degree. Her parents set up a table outside, with her favourite food on the table and a string of party lights around the patio, festivities for just the three of them. Hermione tries hard not to think about picnic lunches at the Burrow, or dinner at Grimmauld Place, of a table once full of people and noise and warmth; and yet it is easier now to put those memories aside than she had ever thought it would be.

After dinner - desultory talk with her parents about Muggle politics she has barely managed to keep abreast of, news about neighbours and schoolmates she hardly remembers, telling her mother how good the food is after every second bite – her mother starts stacking the dishes and Hermione is struck by the feeling that she should contribute to this welcome home party her parents have thrown in their quiet way, show her appreciation somehow. But of all the magic she has learnt in the last seven years, the dangerous incantations, the powerful curses, she knows only a handful of magic that is not practical, so little that is magic for the sake of beauty.

The sparkler she conjures to start is quite small, a little faint at first, testing her memory of such charms. And then, above their heads a shower of sparks form into pictures – flowers, simple animals – and increase in complexity of image and movement until her parents are agape at the fireworks without fire shimmering over their yard.

“Oh, how lovely!” her mother exclaims, plates and cutlery forgotten in a pile on the table, her fingers laced with her father’s. “They’re amazing, Hermione.”

Hermione catches them sharing a look out of the corner of her eye.

“Lovely,” her father echoes, and her parents draw closer, seated side by side on the bench.

There’s a burn in Hermione’s chest with each pulse of light bursting and reflecting on their upturned faces, watching them locked in their own world together. She tries to be comforted by the knowledge that they cannot quite understand what she does but they are amazed by it all, and amazed by her in the same way.

END


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